


Nearly Dying Really Puts Things Into Perspective

by Gracefully



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Major Character Injury, Motorcycles, nixon-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracefully/pseuds/Gracefully
Summary: Nixon almost dies after taking a curve in the road at 50 mph.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in like 40 mins, un beta'd.

Lewis Nixon could taste nothing but blood. He sucked a gasp of cold air in through his lungs, coughing against the warm, thick blood that threatened to clog his throat and mouth. He felt blood splatter on his chin, on his cheeks as he coughed. The rain poured down from above, collecting in the hollows of Nixon’s eyes, freezing him to the core. 

Nixon had crashed his bike before. His first crash was at the age of six, when he flew over the handlebars of his first bike without training wheels. His worst injury from that was two scraped elbows. Somehow, Nixon knew that this crash was much, much worse. 

Nixon stood unsteadily. That’s what you did when you crashed; you got up and you tried to find the bike. That’s what Nixon had always done. This time was different. He was missing a boot, and his helmet. The world kept spinning in alarming ways. Nixon felt like he was burning up from the inside, even though the icy rain had penetrated the hoodie he wore underneath his rain jacket. The rain jacket had been shredded by the road underneath. Only pieces of it still clung to Nixon’s frame. 

Nixon couldn’t find the bike. The road was littered with broken glass, strips of hot rubber, and pieces of the panelling. Nixon felt his head spin. He laid on the road again, trying to catch his breath. He could feel his ribs clicking in and out of place with every inhale and exhale. As the ringing in his ears faded, Nixon could hear an odd gurgling noise coming from his abdomen. 

Pani surged within him, along with a sort of clam as he looked to the thick mass of angry clouds above.  _ You’ve done it this time _ , a voice floated up into his mind. Nixon wanted to laugh. He was twenty four, he didn’t deserve to die on some desolate road in the middle of nowhere. He deserved to die from lung cancer at age 70, not from taking a turn in the road at 50 miles an hour in heavy rain. 

Nixon’s phone was in his front pocket. With trembling, bloody fingers, he dialed 911 and waited, feeling helplessness rise inside him as the phone rang and no voice answered. Finally, a woman picked up. As Nixon felt immense pain slowly well up inside his abdomen, he described the scene as best he could. When she said she was sending ambulances his way, Nixon let the phone slip out of his hand and fall to the road. He felt the black veil of consciousness drape over him as he heard the first sirens approach. 

 

Nixon would later learn that he was airlifted from a nearby clearing to Sutter County General, where he was put into an induced coma. He received 12 blood transfusions and was cut open from sternum to groin. He had ruptured his diaphragm, kidney, spleen, and liver. He had broken two ribs. He had punctured both of his lungs, and both had subsequently collapsed. They were filling with blood, which explained the gurgling sound. 

A team of 5 surgeons flew in from Roseville and spent nearly 20 hours taking turns stitching Nixon back together. He didn’t wake up for almost 3 weeks. 

 

When Nixon woke up, he was on many drugs. He later only remembered fear creeping into the corners of his hazy twilight sleep. 

As the days passed, Nixon was allowed less and less drugs. His mind cleared. He remembered the particulars of his accident, the feelings of relief and anger coursing through his body in turns. Anger at himself occupied most of his mental capacity, and Nixon desperately longed for a drink to relieve at least a little of the pain. He was sure a finger of whiskey would be more effective than the morphine they were pumping into him. 

For three weeks, Nixon slowly returned to himself. He began to recognize his doctor, a determined yet soft-spoken Cajun named Roe, and his nurses. His main nurses were a man with red hair named Dick, and a woman with a kind smile who introduced herself as Renee. The three of them, in Nixon’s drug induced haze, appeared at first as angels descended from Heaven. They all had kind faces and handled him with care that nearly brought tears to Nixon’s eyes. Nixon felt utterly unworthy of the attention that they directed his way. 

For three weeks, all Nixon could do was think. Think about his life. Where he had gone wrong. What had prompted him to risk his life on the highway. Eventually, he came to terms with everything that had happened. He had a second chance at life. He had resources at his disposal that many would die for. He wouldn’t be bankrupted by his lengthy stay at the hospital. He would be okay. 

 

Then, a curveball appeared. A ten-year old girl down the hall died after a lengthy battle with her injuries from a car accident. When Nixon found out, he felt like he was lying on the icy pavement again. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he had gotten a second chance and the little girl didn’t. She was supposed to have a future, and Nixon had one that was entirely undeserved. For nearly a day, he sat in bed with tears streaming silently down his face. As Dick left after a check up, he paused to rest his hand on Nixon’s shoulder. Nixon nearly leaned over and cried into Dick’s scrubs. 

The incident caused Nixon’s mind to give up. He was sick of the taste of blood, he wanted real food and to drink through his mouth. Nixon had had enough of shitting into a bag, he had had enough of people from the chapel preaching to him about life and death. 

Nixon’s body slowly recovered, along with his mind. Eight weeks after the crash, Nixon walked his first steps, with Dick on one arm and Renee on the other. He was out of breath almost instantly, and he felt incredibly fatigued. The muscles in his legs had atrophied, and all of the muscles in his abdomen had been sliced apart by the surgeries he was subjected to. 

The first time Nixon made it to the door of his room, he collapsed in pain against his nurses. But slowly, he built up muscle and determination. One day he made it to the door, the next he made it outside his room, a week later he was hobbling down the hall with only Dick to help him. 

Dick became Nixon’s favorite nurse. Dick liked to sit and talk to Nixon when it was just Dick cleaning Nixon’s room or checking his vitals. As Nixon recovered, Renee was sent to work with patients in ICU, and Dick visited less frequently. As their friendship tenuously blossomed, Dick surprised Nixon with a gift few words could describe: Starbucks. Coffee with one cream and two sugars. Nixon almost started to cry when he saw the cup sitting beside his bed, a small heart drawn on the mug sleeve. The day previous, Dick and Nixon had had a lengthy conversation about coffee and how it should be consumed. The fact that Dick cared enough to buy coffee perfectly to Nixon’s specifications brought unbridled joy to Nixon. He couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face for the rest of the day. 

Roe commented on his good mood, and Nixon could only smile more. Nixon confided that Dick had brought him coffee, and Roe smiled knowingly. He told Nixon about a new EMT who Roe had been working up the courage to talk to for weeks. His name was Babe. 

When Nixon saw Dick next, he thanked him profusely for the coffee. Dick sent him a small, embarrassed smile. “Maybe next time you feel up for a long walk, we can go together. There’s one down the street.” Nixon blushed cherry red but accepted immediately. 

A week later, Nixon dressed in normal clothes for the first time in over two months. He and Dick walked side by side down to the little Starbucks down the road. Nixon had never been happier. He had a newfound appreciation for life. Every ray of sunlight that touched his skin brought tears to his eyes, every person contained an immeasurable mass of good, and at the center of the promise of the future was Dick. 


End file.
